


Missives

by colebotanica (dontrushme)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:11:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dontrushme/pseuds/colebotanica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when Varric says he doesn't write to Anders anymore, he's got to be lying, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missives

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't proof this, so.

When Varric realized what had happened, what was happening, what he’d done, he was _pissed._ At first, all the anger was towards Anders; Anders, who had thought the only way out was to kill innocent people. He had tried to support Anders. The mage had crossed a hundred lines.

                As time passed, Varric realized he should’ve seen it coming. He repeated the past five years of his life to Cassandra, and he saw how clear it had been to Anders. He also saw how clear it should have been to him. His friend had felt trapped, and terrified, and knew that he needed to change how his fellow mages were treated. And Varric… Varric had refused to reply to the letter his friend had sent, even though it had contained a sincere apology, even though Hawke had threatened to stop writing if he kept ignoring Anders.

                After he settled in at Haven, the world was still going to shit, but there’s no better time to make amends than when you’re not sure you’ll live through the week. He sat next to the fire with a pen and a few sheets of paper, and began to write.

 

               

                Paranoia had been eating at the edges of his mind for months, for years, really, but since the explosion at the Kirkwall Chantry he’d known the Templars were hunting for them. Hawke had shaved his beard and kept it fairly clean, while Anders had let his grow out scraggly. He didn’t like it. It was a flimsy mask, and he didn’t like that he’d dragged Hawke into this.

                _Well, it's not a good story unless the hero dies._ Anders had meant to die. Hawke, as usual, threw a wrench in that particular plan, and here they were, on the run, going from dingy little town to dingy little town. Everyone’s eyes followed him. Hawke said that wasn’t true, they didn’t stare any more than people would normally stare at new faces in a small town. Hawke said that it had been like this when he was a child, and his parents were on the run. It had been worse then, even, he said, because after the Blight, travelers were far less remarkable.

                It seemed to Anders, though, that Hawke’s father hadn’t caused a war.

                What was worse than the paranoia, though, was the fact that none of his friends would speak to him. Hawke was an incredible comfort; his gentle touches, kind eyes, his soft lips… but in Kirkwall, Anders had had friends. Maybe his friends didn’t always approve of his actions, but they had been friends. He was smart enough to realize at the time that his actions would cost him dearly.

                Anders knew that it was not that his friends couldn’t locate him- Hawke and Varric wrote weekly. After they had exchanged a few letters, Anders borrowed some paper from a sweet girl at a local inn and sent it tucked inside Hawke’s letter. If it said it was from Hawke, Varric would at least read it.

                Hawke received a reply a few days later, and frowned the whole time he read it. His reply was short, and Anders watched him write it- brows furrowed, jaw ticking. “He doesn’t get to treat you like that,” Hawke had muttered, irritation flashing across his face. Anders had said nothing for the rest of the day, staring at the wall, and Hawke had spent the whole time they had eaten dinner ranting about the slight. Anders stared at the floor.

                Hawke and Varric still exchanged mail, but Hawke had taken to ending every letter with a few sentences about Anders, about how Anders missed Varric, and how Anders had done the right thing. Anders asked him not to, but he did anyways, justifying it by saying that Varric knew all those things anyway. Anders was not so sure. _Well, it's not a good story unless the hero dies._

                Every once in a while, Anders would write a note at the bottom of Hawke’s letters. They were short, and often was just the word ‘sorry’. Sometimes he would write more, tell Varric of something funny that had happened, something Hawke had said.

                Weeks passed, town to town, brief stints in the wilderness, hungry nights and fear following them like scrawny mabari. Another letter came for Hawke; it was longer than usual, and Anders lay with his head in Hawke’s lap as he read it. Hawke lay a hand on Anders’s shoulder, gentle as always, and grinned down at him. “There’s something for you.”

                Anders sat up and leaned against Hawke’s shoulder. He took the flimsy paper from Hawke and began to read.

                                _Blondie,_ it read,

                _Sorry to leave you hanging. I don’t agree with what you did, but you probably already know that. But you’re my friend, and it wasn’t fair to ignore you. Sorry._

_Varric_

Anders’s smile felt weird on his face, but it was worth it for the light feeling it gave him after the months of silence. Hawke had reached up and was tracing Anders’s lips and grinning. “Something good, I assume.” Anders leaned in and pressed his smile against Hawke’s.

                If Varric could forgive him, maybe things would be all right.


End file.
